


Flesh is a Weapon

by CeNedraRiva



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Asexual Character, Backstory, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gen, Mild Gore, ace!Rowena, poor parenting, sex as a tool, sex repulsed character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 14:17:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14672847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeNedraRiva/pseuds/CeNedraRiva
Summary: Rowena had always sought power over her life. When she was young, she had learned that sex could be used to gain power, whether that was from lying with a wealthy man or using sexual energy to power curses. It was a useful tool, if a repugnant one, but she was willing to use it if the reward was worth it. Life was often harsh and difficult. Any little thing that could be used to gain the upper hand was worth it, even if it left her feeling sick.





	Flesh is a Weapon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Asexual SPN Mini Bang! With art made by the lovely @harplesscastiel!

If you lived long enough, it became obvious that despite all the advances humanity had made over the entirety of history, human nature stayed the same.  It was a truth Rowena knew well. People were always willing to make deals to satisfy their base urges, and they were often willing to trade quite a lot for it. Sex had always equalled power.

In this case, sex was the power to access huge amounts of money in a legal manner, enough to start her own tennis club. If all went well, then sex would also be the tool she used to make that access permanent. It was a very useful tool in her arsenal.

The idea of touching him again was enough to make her skin crawl.

Alcohol helped. So did calming charms. Enough so that she could actually make it through the act without panicking or recoiling. She could lie back and pretend she was alone, that this was just a particularly creative masturbation session and not some ugly brute grunting as he thrust inside her—

It was fine. Rowena was a big girl. She could cope, even if it made her want to retch.

Sex was how men communicated. What they desired above all else. Keep yourself beautiful, flirt and pander, and men would do anything to sample you again. They would trade their souls to lay with a willing body.

She would know. She’d collected a few over the years.

* * *

 

Rowena didn’t like to dwell on the past. Generally, her personal history had been less than happy. A tanner’s daughter, born just in time to experience famine among all the other peasants, she had been too inexperienced to use her natural talents in the arcane for anything more useful than creating showers of glowing sparks.  She had been pretty enough to catch the attention of the lord’s son, and weak enough in her hunger to accept it whenever he brought her good food from the lord’s tables. Naïve enough to think he did it out of generosity.

Rowena only denied him for a week after he revealed what he wanted from her. It was better than hunger, and there was a certain thrill in seeing the jealousy in the eyes of the older girls and the merchant’s daughters.

It hurt. It hurt nearly every time, and it left her feeling sick to her stomach, but it was worth it. Just for now. Just until she had saved enough to provide for herself. Just until she had learned the right magic to defend herself.

He would finish inside her. Afterwards, she would bathe in the stream, scrubbing at her skin until it turned pink and raw.

Her father had just arranged a betrothal for her when she fell pregnant. It ruined everything. The betrothal fell through. Her lover cast her aside, leaving her bloody and broken on the bed.

Weak. And growing weaker by the day as her pregnancy stole her energy. If she had known then what she did now, she would have partook a tisane made of pennyroyal and suffered through the brief poisoning. As it was, it was years before she would learn that certain poisons could cause miscarriage, or how to take them to prevent indiscretions. That first time, she had to suffer through the indignities that pregnancy caused, and the exclusion from society.

Her father threw her away like so much rubbish. Cold and penniless, she had barely managed to magic a landlady into giving her a bed. Even then, the enchantment wore off quickly, needing near daily replenishment, and it was weak enough that the woman often refused her food.

Rowena endured it, if only because she knew no other thing to do.

* * *

 

“You ran a background check on me?!” Rowena asked, barely able to suppress her anger.

“Of course I did! Do you think you’re the first gold-digging bitch I’ve had to deal with?” he replied with a disdainful glare. “Good thing I did, too! Now I don’t need to waste another minute paying for your meals.”

“You self-righteous prick! What right do you have to judge me?”

“I made my own money instead of screwing my way to the top, for one thing.”

“You, my dear, haven’t made a sound financial decision in your life! Frankly, Your banker would be relieved if I took some of your depleted inheritance and made something of it!” Rowena retorted. The man only rolled his eyes.

“Say whatever you like, toots, but I know a whore when I see one,” the man scoffed. “Fuck, you’re not even a very good one.”

A sliver of ice ran down her spine, turning her anger cold and sharp.

“What was that?” she asked.

“You’re a bad fuck, sweetheart. Honestly, the only reason I kept you this long is because I like redheads. It certainly wasn’t for your deep-throating.”

Rowena felt bile coming up at the mere memory, disgust leaving tremors in her limbs.

“You certainly weren’t complaining at the time.”

“A warm body’s better than nothing.”

Five minutes later, the man was nothing but a splatter of gore across her face, and her son the King of Hell was asking for her assistance. Rowena was not being glib when she called that particular murder the kindest act Fergus had ever done for her.

It didn’t heal the sharp burn of humiliation. The burning shame that she had once again been reduced to using sex to gain power. She was above that. More capable than that. And worst of all, it had been for nothing. Her debasement had been for a worthless cause, and ineffective in any case.  

Rowena followed her son more for the sense of familiarity magic promised than any desire to help. It had been too long, months since she had used any magic at all. Not since her last interlude with the devil, that last day she had been powerless. The last time she had rescued herself.

Strange, that such a pitiful excuse for a man could make her feel nearly as powerless and small as she had while she worked as Lucifer’s slave.

She wove a small charm to clean off the gore. The magic flowing through her veins felt like water on a parched throat.

It was hard to remember exactly how she had justified going without.

* * *

 

Staring down at the puffy little face in her arms, Rowena waited to feel love. It was instinctive, was it not? A child, a baby given life from within her body, grown from her own energy. She was a mother. Mothers loved their children, at least at first.

She didn’t feel love.

This being had ruined her life. This parasite was the reason she no longer ate at the Lord’s table. The reason she was left destitute, with nothing but her wits to keep her alive.

He had begun to scream, desperate for attention. Rowena stared down at him.

“A healthy pair of lungs on this one,” smiled the matron. “Go on, m’dear. Feed him.”

Rowena blinked, glancing at the aged woman.

“Feed him?”

“Bring him to your chest, dearie. He’ll know what to do.”

She followed the instructions mechanically, lifting the child until he latched onto her breast. The pull against her flesh was just below what would be painful, if her stomach hadn’t been aching with hunger for the past months. Just a newborn, and already this child was stealing from her, taking what little energy she had left.

Already the matron was packing away her equipment.

Rowena stared as the woman made her excuses, and left the room. She turned her gaze to her landlady, who was waiting in the corner.

“You can’t stay here with that little screaming shitbag. I won’t allow it,” the landlady said with a stern expression. “Collect your belongings, girl.”

Rowena’s eyes narrowed into a glare.

“You would cast a new mother onto the street to die, Charity? Is that what the Lord teaches us?” she sneered.

“The Lord would forgive me for casting out a heathen like you,” Charity scoffed, clutching at her crucifix. “I didn’t say nothing when the matron were here, I let you birth the child here, I owe you nothing more. Get out of my house!”

_“You will obey me!”_

Rowena felt the rush of magic in her veins at the same instant as Charity’s eyes went dull. She let herself feel a sliver of satisfaction at her success, but only for a second. The spell wasn’t very effective. It would only last for a short while before Charity began to question her thoughts again, and attempt once more to cast her out of this hovel.

* * *

 

After Lucifer was sealed away again, Rowena didn’t hesitate to make herself scarce. Casting a quick concealment charm, she held herself still as the bodyguards and agents filed into the room. The Winchesters, rather amazingly, were still here, still standing above the unconscious form of the president.

Watching as the brothers were pinned to the floor and arrested, she felt a flicker of pity. Just a flicker, borne out of respect for a fallen foe. It was difficult to imagine the brothers could escape whatever prison they were placed into.

Though, to be completely fair, if Fergus was right the brothers had both escaped from Hell, Heaven, and Purgatory.

Watching as they were carried out, Rowena was certain that she would encounter them again. Sometimes she had feelings like that, certainties than events would turn out one way or another. The Winchesters were simply a part of her future.

She waited, still as she could be, as the armed men dragged the brothers outside. When the room was close to empty, she moved slowly to the doorway. The spell only worked if she moved slow. As soon as she was outside, out of notice, she ran.

Months later, midway through a high stakes poker game, Rowena’s phone lit up with an unknown number. On a whim, she answered, and heard the familiar voice of Sam Winchester.

She smiled.

* * *

 

The child was loud.

The child was needy.

The child was disgusting.

Rowena was not entirely sure why she had kept it past infancy. The little thing would goggle at her, demanding her attention at all hours of the night and day. His eyes were the same as his father’s.

There wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t loathe the very sight of him. His flailing limbs and wailing mouth. This was the creature that had stolen her previous life. He was the thing that ruined her life.

Rowena left the child with the maid, if she could. The girl was younger than she was, but already a mother, and always happy to care for another.

Charity was long dead. An overzealous obedience spell had melted her brain months before, and with a clever trick of deeds and wills, Rowena had inherited her property. She was already richer than her father, rich enough that the people of the town only spoke badly of her when her back was turned.

In the evenings, they would gather in the woods. All the men and women who were enchanted with the idea of magic, and wanted power. They would dance under the moonlight, and sing in broken Latin, and throw aromatic herbs onto bonfires.

None of the rest of them had any talent, not like Rowena did, but as a group they were able to work some small magicks. Bringing each other good fortune, or cursing those who crossed them. Everyone envied Rowena’s luck, how quickly she rose from nothing, though none of them would mention it.

They liked her child. They would coo and dote on the little thing, impressed by the few nonsense words he would babble on command. Rowena would smile, and listen as they chattered away about the rewards of motherhood. It was dreadfully boring.

Some nights, when the moon was full, they would gather and strip naked, touching and writhing against one another. They would moan in pleasure, a mass of twisting bodies. Even here, she was popular. Her red hair and smooth pale skin attracted many admiring touches. They were soft touches, purposeful, designed to bring pleasure, kinder than any touch she had experienced from the lord’s son when he had favoured her. They left her body trembling and flushed and wanting, while her mind retreated from the world of the physical. It was simply a process, the quickest way of drawing the energy needed to complete their spells.

Those nights, she would return late, and have the maid heat water to bathe with. The trembling didn’t stop even when the warm water forced away the chill of the night. Her head ached, and no tisane could cure it. In the days after, she would have no patience for the child. She would send him to live in the maid’s quarters where she didn’t have to hear his screaming.

She really didn’t know why she kept him.

* * *

 

Rowena travels to meet them, of course. Any curse that caused the memory to decay had to be particularly powerful, beyond the capabilities of most demon witches, and honestly the nature of the curse reminded her of a particular family of witches. A powerful Celtic family who had shown her a great deal of disrespect in a time when she was desperately in need.

Let it not be said that Rowena let offences fade before time.

Besides, it was likely the brothers would both perish without her assistance, and woe betide a world bereft of their surly protection. She most certainly didn’t want to be called up in their place to defend the world from whatever the next apocalypse would be.

It didn’t hurt to have a Winchester owe you a favour either. She was loathe to admit it, but she was beginning to see why Crowley had made his peace with them, years ago.

Dean opened the door at her knock. Sam greeted her with a pistol.

“Who are you?” Dean asked, wearing a confused smile. Rowena smirked, her eyes finding Sam.

“The spell’s progressed, I see,” she commented as she stepped into the room. Sam sighed with a truly phenomenal level of petulance as he lowered his weapon.

“I wanted intel, Rowena, not a house call,” Sam said.

“Well, I have a feeling you’ll come to thank me,” she replied, turning to inspect the cursed brother. She could sense Sam shifting closer, obviously uncomfortable with a dangerous witch being in close proximity to his brother. Dean showed no such caution, staring at her hair with unconcealed delight.

“Your hair, it’s all so bouncy,” Dean grinned, reaching up to touch one lock, and Rowena nearly laughed aloud. This was one of the most fearsome hunters of the age, and he was innocently fascinated with red curls.

“Why, thank you!” she replied, and Dean smiled again, as eagerly friendly as a Golden Retriever. “Do we have to fix him?”

Sam looked faintly alarmed, before his expression shifted to cold disapproval.

It didn’t take long to formulate a plan. Sam didn’t trust Rowena alone with Dean, and Sam certainly wouldn’t wait with Dean while Rowena went alone to steal the Black Grimoire. As Sam was only too glad to reiterate, she was only here for the possibility of learning obscure, powerful magics, so obviously he didn’t trust her. But time was against them, so despite the fact that Sam was clearly unable to fight a family as powerful as the Loughlins, he left alone to attempt to steal the grimoire. Presumably, Sam believed Rowena would protect his brother if only to gain access to the grimoire.

It was a fair assessment.

Rowena was surprised to find it stung. Of course the grimoire and a life debt were the most important factors in why she was assisting them, but that didn’t mean she was completely devoid of conviviality towards them. With the death of Clea last year, the brothers Winchester were the closest thing Rowena had to consistent allies, with her son and Dean’s angel as a close second. Was it that unthinkable that she could feel some small degree of concern for Dean, while also feeling a great deal more greed for the grimoire?

* * *

 

It was rather amazing how much power money gave a person. While she was certainly possessed nowhere near the wealth of the Lord of the Manor, she was certainly the richest of any local person not of noble birth.

With money came the power to eat well each and every day. Rowena made sure to take full advantage of it. Every single evening, there was meat on her table.

With money she regained the interest of the Lord’s son, only a few months before he would take over from his ailing father. By his own word, the landlady of a prosperous inn was more than suitable as a steady mistress, now that the lordling was to be married. Rowena ignored his letters, and walked past him in the streets. In the evenings, she would place needles through the straw doll she had made of the Lord, willing his illness to become ever more gruesome. She delighted in the pale, upset expressions of the lordling.

With money came the freedom to travel. As soon as the snow cleared in Spring, Rowena took the time to visit the nearest large city. It was less than a day away by carriage, but so much busier than her hometown.

She spent hours perusing the market streets. The dressmakers here had lace in patterns she’d never seen before, and the latest dress patterns straight from London. There was a small shop filled with books - far too expensive for most of the peasants, not that they’d even be able to read the things - covering all sorts of interesting topics, from tawdry romances to scientific treatises. One merchant even had a selection of curios from the Orient, delicate silks and pottery and small jars filled with ground spices that left her nose and tongue tingling.

Rowena spent many days wandering, just exploring all the nooks and crannies of the place. She bought all she liked, and enchanted anyone who would refuse her to give up their wares anyway. It was lovely, the way all the little people would watch her go by, envious of her beauty and luck.

No one here knew she was peasant-born. They would never need to know. Instead they scrambled from her feet, afraid of calling down the wrath of this visiting lady, because whoever she was, she was very obviously better than them.

She would relocate. Find some weak-willed property-owner, perhaps the son of an innkeeper, and bewitch him with her beauty and ethereal grace. From there, she would be able to set her sights on the nobility, and force her way to the top.

Everything went to hell when she returned to her hometown.

There were strange men visiting. Questioning the peasants. Investigating.

Within hours of her return, they were knocking at her door, demanding to speak with her. At the time, she hadn’t known their purpose in visiting was to destroy her. If she had, she most certainly wouldn’t have invited them in for tea.

But she wasn’t to know, and so she wasn’t as cautious as she should have been. No one she had ever met had been able to shake off her enchantments. No one she had ever met had been able to use their own magic.

They called themselves the Men of Letters. Witch hunters.

She barely escaped with her life.

* * *

 

Dean emerged from the bathroom several minutes after Sam had left, and began wandering the rooms. What was at first amusing became quickly frustrating, as Dean repeatedly reached for her equipment every time he forgot he had been told no. He was like a particularly mischievous child, sulking as if she denied him a treat. Eventually she passed him a curse doll to distract him.

He sat at the edge of her table, stabbing the doll with a hat pin.

Rowena wasn’t entirely certain where the urge to spill her past came from.  Perhaps it was simply a way of purging the bad taste the name Loughlin left in her mouth, or a reminder to herself of exactly what humiliations the Loughlins had put her through. Either way, she found a willing, wide eyed audience in Dean Winchester.

“Once, a beautiful witch was again run out of her homeland by those pompous, self-righteous, murderous hooligans. You know them as the British Men of Letters,” Rowena explained. “She sought refuge with a family of witches. All she wanted was a roof over her head, and a safe place to hone her magic. Yet, they threw her out like – like common trash, said she wasn’t up to snuff!”

“Oh, these witches sound like dicks,” Dean interrupted. “I think you’ve got plenty of snuff.”

Rowena paused, staring at the man.

It had been a long time since anyone had given her such a guileless compliment. She laughed, enjoying the way such simple words left her feeling warm and light. She didn’t require compliments to know she was extraordinary, but they certainly didn’t hurt.

Dean smiled, pleased to see her laughter, before turning back to the doll.

It was truly fascinating, learning what sort of man Dean Winchester was at the very core of his being. The bitterness, anger and despair was all stripped away, leaving only curiosity and kindness. How different might he be if he had grown in a world without hunting, she wondered.

If the memory wiping spell wasn’t deadly, she might have considered leaving him cursed. It would have removed a possible enemy from her world, and would certainly have left the man happier. She could be kind too, if it suited her.

“You really can remember nothing, can you?” Rowena teased. “What a gift not to recall the things you’ve done.” Or the things she’d endured. She would gladly wipe some parts of her past blank if she could.

Dean turned to her, his eyes large and confused. “What have I done?”

“Oh, you’re a killer, Dean Winchester.”

He squinted at her in confusion, and maybe a hint of distress.

“Wait, I – I kill people?”

“Scores. But, though you may be a stubborn pain in the arse, with the manners of a Neanderthal, and the dining habits of a toddler, everything you’ve done you did—” she sighed, rolling her eyes, “—for the greater good.”

“Oh, and that’s supposed to make it okay?”

“I wouldn’t know.” She shrugged, moving around the table to sit besides him. “You help those other than yourself, but me? I’ve done horrible things, and I told myself it was fine. It was the price of power, and power’s what matters, right? Then I met God and his sister, the two most powerful beings in the universe, wasting it on squabbling with each other! I thought if they can’t be happy, or at least satisfied, how can there be any hope for me?”

Dean nodded, though he was obviously completely lost. Already his distress at learning he was a killer had faded. Rowena doubted he remembered the start of their conversation, her story.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Because she wanted a willing listener to hear her doubts. Because it was cathartic to speak so freely with another human. Because it was lonely being powerful, and who else did she have?

“Because I know you won’t remember.”

* * *

 

Dozens of small towns and villages passed by in a blur. Every day was a frantic, paranoid scramble to escape, to move on, to find somewhere safe enough to rest. She could almost feel their eyes on her.

The Men of Letters nearly caught up to her, more than once. Rowena concealed her face behind scarves and grime, the look of a lowborn thing, nothing like the finery she had worn when they first discovered her. It was enough to blend into the crowd, and slip away in the night.

Small magics helped her survive. Charms for food and goodwill, and to erase her from their memory once she was out of sight. Still, it seemed her magic had grown powerful over the years. The Men of Letters accused her of the murders of all that had helped her, their brains boiled by the force of her magic. Rowena could easily believe it. She was more than capable of killing in her haste.

Some days her thoughts went to her child Fergus, left abandoned in her home. Would the maid still care for him, feed him, now that she had left? Perhaps one of the circle of self-taught “witches” would take him, or maybe he would find shelter at the workhouse with the other unclaimed children.

She was never going to see him again. She couldn’t risk it. The Men of Letters would have surely placed a watcher or a spell of some kind within her old town to sense if she ever returned. If she ever went back to collect him, she would be caught. Slaughtered.

She would never see Fergus again. The idea left a deep ache in her chest, and idly Rowena wondered if this was at last the love she was meant to feel for her child, finally manifest. Oh, her dear child. If he still lived, he would be the centre of all the town’s ire, the focus of all their grievences with her, and there were many of those. He would grow in a poverty even more dire than she had.

He had only just learned to speak during the weeks before she had left all those months ago.

How bizarre to grieve for the child she had never wanted or felt thankful for. There was not a moment she had looked upon him and felt much more than disgust and frustration, and yet now she missed his presence. Fergus was hers, moreso than any of her other charmed and stolen and bargained things. He was unwanted, but still hers, crafted from within the flesh of her body and fed with what little energy she had.

Yet another thing the Men of Letters had taken from her. She loathed them. A fury that whispered and pulsed within her chest, a flame that set her thoughts ablaze. How dare they? Vile marauders, invading her home and her town and stealing her future, condemning her for her magic.

She would destroy them. She would learn and practice her craft, perfect it, and then she would return. She would discover the centre of their nest and rout them, burn them all out.

With her new goal, Rowena’s movements changed. No longer did she run from town to town, desperate and hiding. She was no frightened little girl, cowering before lashes from her father. She was not weak.

So it was that she made her way to London in a carriage and gown, attended by eager servants. The change in pace and method left her pursuers far behind, and Rowena made sure to leave little traps for them to encounter in her wake. They would regret seeking her.

It was just outside Luton that she was intercepted.

The woman was proud, blonde and her sharp smile did nothing to conceal the distaste in her eyes. She matched every one of Rowena’s spells with another, and complimented her efforts to escape the Men of Letters in the same breath as she insulted Rowena’s methods. Her name was Olivette, and her task was to invite Rowena to join the Grand Coven, to learn of true witchcraft.

Rowena nearly rejected the offer purely from spite. Never before had she encountered a witch with the power to beat her, not even among her pursuers, and the humiliation of it wouldn’t stand. Better to spit and twist and make Olivette’s mission fail than to accept. But the flame in her heart pulsed once more, and Rowena decided the opportunity was exactly what she needed if she was to take down the Men of Letters. As a part of the Grand Coven, she would be able to learn from the most exalted and powerful witches in the world, and have the freedom and safety to practice her own craft.

She accepted.

* * *

 

It took an embarrassingly short time for things to go wrong. No more than a minute after Sam had informed her he had snuck in, the sounds of Catriona Loughlin’s chanting could be heard over the phone, quickly followed by Sam’s screams. The call cut off a moment later.

Rowena bit her lip, frowning as she placed the phone back on the table. Nearby, Dean looked alarmed, pacing as he muttered about saving Sam, but it wasn’t much longer before he turned to her with a sweet, confused smile and asked her if she knew who Sam was.

“Sam is your brother, and I imagine he’s currently in quite a bit of strife. Likely he won’t make it out alive,” Rowena answered, moving to sit on the bed.

“We have to help him, then!” Dean said, stepping forwards and taking Rowena’s hands. “What do we do, do we take him to, uh—medicine place? Call the police?”

“I’m afraid no doctor or officer of the law will be able to help in this case.” Rowena paused, turning to face Dean properly. “You obviously can’t do anything to help, given you can barely remember the last five minutes, and I don’t imagine the Loughlins will have allowed any other hunters to settle so close to their home. Which means it comes down to me.”

Dean gave her a tight smile, but his eyes were already narrowed in confusion.

She could leave right now. The Loughlins had no idea she was here, and Sam would soon be dead anyway, so there would be no one left to hold her to her word. Dean wasn’t much longer for this world either, as pleasingly innocent as he appeared now. Perhaps she could drop him off at a dog park and wash her hands of the entire situation.

Rowena sighed.

“I’ll have you know I did not sign up to play heroics with you boys. The Loughlins are hardly a family I would ever want to fight without months of planning. I will be risking both life and limb by doing this.”

“Doing what?” Dean asked, face vacant yet friendly.

“Follow me,” Rowena said, collecting her bag and walking to Dean’s car. Dean followed along behind her like a puppy. “We are going on an ill-prepared rescue mission.”

* * *

 

In the end, Rowena spent over a decade among the Grand Coven, developing magic. They lived as gods among mortals, eating only the best food and wearing the latest fashion, devoting their lives to everything magic. Enthralled servants attended to all the menial tasks that had once consumed much of Rowena’s life. It was a life of luxury.

It wasn’t to last.

Even ten years later, Olivette hadn’t grown to like her any better, and Rowena felt just as antagonistic. They were rivals in all the things that mattered, and many things that didn’t. Rowena was delighted to discover that after only a few months of training, her raw power was far stronger than Olivette. Olivette was equally delighted to learn Rowena knew nothing of living among the upper classes.

Unfortunately, it was Olivette who had the ear of the High Priestess, and with that she was able to lay crime after crime at Rowena’s feet.

_Her magic was too forceful, too crude._

_Her actions would draw the gaze of the Men of Letters._

_Her disregard for political games in favour of research was evidence that she wanted to murder the High Priestess._

For the most part, Rowena was able to ignore the accusations, or talk her way past them if it came to that. it wasn’t like the deaths of a few humans had any great meaning to the High Priestess of the rest of the coven, and the Men of Letters had long been enemies of the coven.

Still, it was apparent that one day soon she would be unable to escape their scrutiny properly.

Rowena knew here time was up when she entered the Grand Coven councilroom to find Olivette in the High Priestess’s place, and the room full of her supporters.

The trial went quickly. Olivette recited the same petty grievances she had always had, and the women around her clucked and chattered in elaborate sympathy. Through it all, Rowena stood firm, dismissing each charge as contemptuously as she would brush a fly from her proximity, making every complaint seem as little as it was. There was not a witch among them who hadn’t done worse, and for less gain.

Until Olivette brought up Fergus. Rowena felt her breath catch, her careful calm facade cracked.

Fergus had lived. Fergus had grown. He was the apprentice to a tailors, a respectable position for an orphan. The local Lord, her once lover, had apparently arranged for the position, not long after Rowena had fled, and though he never once claimed relations to the child, it was obvious to all around that he was the Lord’s bastard child.

Olivette lay the final charge at Rowena’s feet. Birthing and raising a child with a non-magical being. Rowena, blindsided to learn that Fergus lived, had no defence ready. How could she have known they would consider it a crime? She hadn’t even known how to prevent pregnancy, let alone that there was a secret society made up solely of witches.

Rowena attempted to escape moments before they expelled her from the coven, to no avail. The witches Olivette had collected were too powerful together to evade, and unlike Rowena, they had been prepared for this. Still, three witches died before Rowena was subdued, and not one of them escaped some manner of injury.

They sealed her powers, weaving complex curses all around her until she could barely feel the flow of energy of the earth, couldn’t sense the power in the runes and glyphs carved into the walls, and her magic was barely a flicker within her.

For the first time in her life, Rowena screamed.

* * *

 

Catriona was as beautiful and youthful as she had been a hundred years ago. It was a great pity. Rowena had hoped her spellwork would fail over the years, or perhaps her features would be twisted by the backlash of a curse of some sort.

“Catriona Loughlin. The years have not been kind,” Rowena lied. Catriona didn’t so much as flinch at the insult.

“Who are you?” Catriona sneered.

“Rowena.”

Catriona only shrugged, already looking bored with their conversation. As if her name meant nothing. As if she was nothing important at all. Rowena felt the first hot burn of humiliation within her chest, but she kept her head high. The Loughlins would not shame her again.

“Rowena MacLeod?” she hinted. At that, there was a flash of interest in Catriona’s eyes. A smirk tugged at her mouth, and Rowena allowed herself to feel a measure of satisfaction before a name fell from Catriona’s lips. The wrong name.

“Raggedy Anne!”

“Excuse me?”

“I remember you, a ragdoll, all huddled up on our doorstep. I swore I could see the fleas nibbling away at whatever was left of that dirty little body of yours.” Catriona snorted, shaking her head as she made her way down the stairs. “And still you thought you were worthy of our magic. And when we disagreed, oh, how you begged. How you threw yourself down and… offered yourself, to each of us. Boyd almost took you up on it too. But then I told him it would be cleaner with the pigs.”

Rowena breathed in slowly, keeping herself still. She could remember that night, all those decades ago. She could remember the fear that had driven her from her home once more, this time from the grip of the overzealous church, stirred to a frenzy by the Men of Letters. She remembered fleeing to the new world with hundreds of other refugees seeking a safer life. She remembered the despair that had driven her to the Loughlin’s doorstep. The overwhelming need to free her powers from the ties that bound them.

She had begged. She had bribed. She had promised every type of wealth and gift of value she knew to give, and when those had failed, she had even offered her body despite swearing to never let another touch her. Anything at all to free her magic, and finally live without fear.

And they had laughed.

It didn’t take much to bring that old anger forwards.

“You know what they say,” Rowena began, letting her magic pool into her hands, just waiting for her command. “Nothing heals old wounds like opening fresh ones.”

With a gesture, she sent Catriona flying across the room.

Of course, her advantage couldn’t last long. When it came to raw, combative power, the Loughlins were still stronger. She could only hope that Dean Winchester would prove as contrary as he always did in time to help save her life.

As it turned out, she was right to hope. There were few sights in her long life that were as satisfying as watching Catriona Loughlin crumple to the ground after being shot by a witch-killing bullet.

* * *

 

There had never been any moment in her life, even including the centuries until now, as wretched as those first few weeks after she had been cast from the Grand Coven.

She wandered the streets, a mad thing shrieking and gibbering, all dressed in rags. She wept openly, wailing her misery for all to hear. The nights were colder than anything she had ever felt before. Hunger hollowed her out until she became no better than a wandering wraith. Her pale skin was concealed beneath muck and dirt, her face scratched, her body bruised, and she could barely muster a care because her magic was gone, it was gone...

She wasn’t entirely sure how she survived that time. She certainly hadn’t been in any state sane enough to help herself, too focused on the horror of losing so much of herself. It had felt like going blind, deaf and lame in one fell swoop. Magic had always been a part of her, as long as she could remember. It ran through her body as easily and plentiful as blood.

She had returned to herself one day in the middle of winter, as she huddled freezing on the step of a shop closed for the evening. Rowena had blinked, staring down at her unfamiliar hands. Her dress was badly damaged and coated in months of grime, and layers of wool things hung about her shoulders, though it was not quite enough to keep out the cold.

Just what was she doing? How had she fallen so quickly to become this thing beneath her dignity? Though a lot had been stolen from her, she was not completely powerless, and she would not die. Not because of them. Not because of this. She owed so many her fury.

She shivered violently as a cold wind whistled down the street. Rowena’s teeth chattered, and she pulled her clothing in more tightly.

The first thing she had to do was find a way out of this cold. Then she could worry about food.

She scrubbed the dirt from her hands and face as best she could. She ran her hands through her red hair to untangle it. Wandering the cold streets for a short while she spotted other women without homes or shelter, and traded her warmer layers for their prettier ones. There wasn’t much she could do about the smell, but that had never mattered to men before.

Magic wasn’t the only tool she possessed, nor was it the first she had mastered. Before the night was done, she had found herself a bed in a warmer place, sharing body heat with a grunting beast of a man who had left her with more aches and bruises than she started. It had been over a decade. She had forgotten how badly it made her ache.

In the morning, she rose before him, and stole what food she could find before running. That night, she found another suitor, and slept in his bed, until his wife returned home. In all the yelling, Rowena stole a skirt with less holes than hers and slipped from the house. The next night, she found another suitor.

It was nearly two months later that anything significant changed. Rowena was far better dressed, anc cleaner than she had begun, though still hungry and without lodgings. The workhouses and brothels each offered places for her to sleep, but neither appealed while she still had her agency. As sick as the very idea of sex made her feel, Rowena at least wanted to choose her partners.

Even so, her choices were not always safe. That night’s man had proven to have darker appetites. He was thrusting inside her, far rougher than she was used to, when his hands closed around her neck and began to squeeze. Her hands tugged at his to no avail, and her lungs burned for air, and her head was growing dizzy, and she could barely hear the awful words the man was sneering down at her or see the joy in his eyes as her vision went dark.

Rowena panicked.

The man was flung backwards, hitting the opposite wall hard enough to knock him unconscious. On the bed, Rowena wheezed for breath, coughing and shaking and on the verge of tears.

Her magic! It was still there, though greatly diminished. She could finally feel it.

She would never have to lay in another man’s bed.

* * *

 

With the right incantation, Dean’s curse proved laughably easy to reverse. It didn’t even require the use of any special ingredients to act as a conduit or foci. With a flash of purple light, clarity began to return to Dean’s eyes.

Rowena knew the exact moment Dean regained his memories. He suddenly grew still, his expression guarded as he eyed her with suspicion.

“Rowena?” Dean’s gaze fell to the grimoire on the table before her, and he shifted as if to draw a weapon. “What are you doing?”

Rowena sighed.

“At the very least, you owe me a thank you.”

“For what?”

”Reversing the curse? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten all about it? Although it would be rather poetic.”

“I don’t remember any curse.”

“Of course you don’t,” Rowena said, rolling her eyes. “ And after all my selfless heroics, too.”

Dean glared, but didn’t answer, apparently thinking through the past few days.

“We were hunting a witch…” Dean trailed off, before he began glancing around the room, eyes alighting on the body of Gideon Loughlin. He frowned, but after a second, he seemed to relax, turning back to Rowena.

“Did Sam call you in?”

“Aye. He realised you were both in over your heads not long after you were cursed.”

Dean grunted. “Must have been a bad one. Sam hates you.”

“I’m hardly fond of him either,” Rowena spluttered. “The last time he requested my help with a curse, he imprisoned me!”

“So why’d you help?”

“Well. It’s always useful to have a Winchester in your debt,” Rowena said, closing the grimoire. “Shall we go see to your brother before he breaks into the room, determined to save you from my clutches?”

Dean shrugged, but he followed her out.

Sam was stood at the bottom of the stairs, and he turned to them as they exited the study.

“Hey, is that it? Is it done?” Sam asked, staring at Dean with eyes wide and full of tremulous hope.

“Who’s this hippy?” Dean responded.

Rowena felt a moment of panic. Had the curse re-established itself? Was the cure only temporary?

She glanced to Dean—

But, no, he was still the same as before, that childlike innocence driven away by his memories as a hunter. Dean was simply playing a cruel joke on his brother, for whatever reason. Rowena bit her lip to conceal a smile as Dean’s eyes met hers for a second, and she spotted the glee hidden within. She turned back to Sam with a forlorn expression.

Dean couldn’t hold it for more than a moment before he began to laugh.

“Look at his face!” Dean chuckled, and Rowena grinned, glancing between them. “Ah, kind of like that time I ate all your Halloween candy, remember that? Classic.”

Sam huffed, and shuffled and shook his head, obviously torn between relief and frustration. “Not funny.”

Rowena only rolled her eyes, before making her way towards the door. With the Black Grimoire in her arms, she had no other reason to stay in this godforsaken house.

It took her far too long to realise she had never mentioned to Dean the exact nature of the curse he had been under.

The next day, as she prepared to leave, Rowena watched Dean carefully, looking for any sign that he might remember his experiences under the memory curse. He never acted any different than he had in the years before the curse, never said anything about her actions or confessions. But occasionally, his eyes would land on her and there would be something different in his gaze, something that wasn’t quite as harsh as suspicion. Did he know? Did he remember her vulnerability?

By the time they escorted her out to the taxi, she still hadn’t managed to work out if Dean remembered or not, and his assurance that his memory was mostly blank did nothing to settle her worries. Mostly blank might still involve her.

It wasn’t a surprise when Sam declared she could not keep the grimoire. She had even prepared in advance, searching through and photographing as many pages of the grimoire as she could manage during the moments she was left alone with it to cure Dean. It was still irritating to have the book taken from her. She had earned it this time, if only because of the risks she had taken on the Winchesters’ behalf. Ungrateful brutes.

Still, as the taxi pulled away, Rowena felt herself smiling.

* * *

 

Once Rowena rediscovered her magic, she was quick to use it. Before the week was out, she was once more dressed in the finery of a noble lady and held several servants in a thrall.

Things were not quite the same. None of the texts that she could find had any mention of magic, and the food was considerably worse. Her powers were far too quickly exhausted now, and she couldn’t keep more than three people enthralled. But it was enough to give her an advantage, and enough to escape the streets.

It was enough to attract unwanted attention.

The Men of Letters found her first. Polite, well-dressed men who knocked at the door of her borrowed townhouse, assuring her thralls that they merely wished to talk with the lady of the house. A part of her wished to invite them in, to have them encounter her lounging before the fire, the very picture of luxury and indulgence, before she burned their brains out and set them on each other. But Rowena had grown wiser in her years, enough to realise she was outmatched for the time being, still weak from her time wandering the streets. She slipped out of the building the moment she recognised the familiar Aquarian star pinned to their lapels, and went in search of another target with a suitable house to borrow.

After that day, it never took more than a few days for the Men of Letters to discover her once more. Frustratingly, subtle spellwork and hex bags began to appear beside her prospective victims, limiting those she could take advantage of. It was endlessly frustrating, and perhaps a little frightening too. It would not be long before they caught her and attempted to destroy her once more, and she was still uncertain if she would be able to fight them off if it came to direct combat.

She had to leave London, that was clear.

Where to go, though? The Men of Letters held influence all throughout Britain, enough so to chase her across half the country. She had no idea if that influence reached across the channel, thought. Perhaps she could find shelter in Europe, somewhere where magic was thicker in the air. Many witches, some of them members of the Grand Coven and others simply known allies, lived across the waters. If she was lucky, she might be able to find a new teacher among them.

It was as Rowena was preparing to board a ship to the continent that she was ambushed. Not by the Men of Letters as she had been anticipating, but by a fellow witch, claiming to be sent by Olivette herself. Apparently, expulsion and sealing of Rowena’s powers was not enough to settle Olivette’s petty jealousy.

And just who was this arrogant sycophant anyway? Rowena couldn’t recall her name, and she couldn’t remember having seen this woman step within the halls of the libraries or apothecaries or anywhere but a few steps behind Olivette herself. She was barely better than a borrower! Rowena would not settle quietly and accept death at the hands of some unknown hedge-witch!

Of course, her fury at the slight in Olivette’s choice of assassin did nothing to restore her own powers to their former glory or enhance the deadliness of her still-recovering strength. Rowena was in no state to battle a competent magic user, no matter how weak, and she was well aware of it.

So it was lucky she had an escape spell prepared. All she needed was a break in the battle to cast it…

Rowena had sustained far more injuries than was exactly desired by the time her moment came. It felt like cold mist enveloped her, obscuring her vision and stealing her breath, before suddenly the cold grew vicious and burning. She struggled, panicking for a moment when she realised she could no longer feel the ground beneath her feet. Had she failed? Had she been knocked backwards into the frigid waters of the Thames? Was she even now drowning?

She couldn’t feel her hands. Her feet were missing. Her body was gone. Where was she! Why was everything black? Had the spell failed? Had she merely destroyed herself—

Rowena slammed into the ground hard.

Suddenly there was air around her, cold air but air all the same, and the sky above was a steely grey, and she could feel snow against her neck and hear birdsong all around—

She had made it. She had escaped. The spell had worked exactly as she intended, though perhaps the journey was a little rougher than she would want. She laughed, hysterical and cold and exhausted, but alive.

Eventually the cold grew too uncomfortable, and she moved to stand, only to stumble quite badly as her leg suddenly flared with pain. She shrieked, but was unable to break her fall before she landed in the muck. Her leg throbbed, and Rowena had to bite her tongue to keep from groaning out in pain. It seemed she hadn’t been quite as lucky as she had thought.

Slower this time, she moved to prop herself upright, and surveyed her surroundings. She appeared to be in a farmer’s field of some kind, lined by a small smattering of trees. More fields went off into the distance, broken up by the occasional line of trees or small building. Patches of snow covered a lot of the ground, but it looked like Spring had begun to touch this land, wherever it was. It definitely wasn’t anywhere in Britain. She had never seen any place so flat in her life.

Regardless of where it was, she had to set off and find civilisation, sooner rather than later. She was getting colder with every minute, and that discomfort as well as the ache in her leg was the the only thing that kept her from lying down to sleep off her exhaustion. She needed food, and a fire, and a good rest.

She hissed as she lifted her skirt to examine her leg. It… wasn’t good. The bone was obviously broken, and there was bruising all across her lower leg, as well as a nasty gash through her muscle. Really, she was rather astounded it had taken her so long to notice the pain. It was impossible to ignore now. Healing would have to come first, then.

A noise drew her attention.

It was a small, blond boy. He couldn’t be older than eight, and he watched at her with a large, sweet grin before he noticed her injury and began blathering in a language Rowena had never heard before. She shook her head, and asked the boy where the closest village was. He stared blankly, before speaking the same language as before as he approached, kneeling by her side.

Great. She was stranded in the middle of nowhere with a boy who knew no English.

It was better than being murdered, she supposed.

The boy appeared greatly concerned about the wound on her leg, pointing at it and frowning. Very carefully, he removed the scrap of fabric that served as his scarf, and he began to dab at the blood of her wound.

What a bizarre child.

* * *

 

Rowena heard her phone buzz. She ignored it, carefully focused on applying colour to her eyes in a beautiful, graceful shape. Kohl next, tracing the edges of her eyelids, then mascara to her lashes.

There. Perfect.

With a smirk still curving her lips, Rowena finally turned to check on her phone, and was surprised to find the name Dean Winchester in her alerts. It had only just gone a week since she had last seen the brothers in person, surely they were able to muddle along without her help for that!

Dean had sent her a picture message, captioned with the phrase “ _Hey, I found a book with a photo of you in!”._ Rowena frowned, opening the photo. She was fairly certain that she already knew every old book that contained photos of her, and almost every one had long since fallen out of print. She did make occasional appearances in the society pages—

It was a cartoon! A red-headed, cartoon witch perched on a broom with a cat and a cauldron, from the front cover of some sort of children’s book!

Rowena huffed, throwing her phone down onto the pillows of her bed, crossing her arms as she sat.

How rude!

She glared at her phone from across the room for a moment, before picking it up.

_“I see they finally let you check your favorite book out to the library, sweetie. Remember not to push yourself too hard with all those big, long words. Cauldron, levitate... C. A. T.”_

Dean sent her an emoji of a witch’s hat. Rowena snorted, but didn’t respond, and Dean didn’t send any further messages.

She put the incident from her mind. Until, nearly a week later, she got another message from Dean, something vaguely insulting and mostly meaningless. She sent back a sharp response, and again, Dean responded with an emoji, and there was silence for a week.

It became a thing. Dean would send a message to her, usually accompanied by an uncomplimentary image, and Rowena would respond with her own sarcastic barb. It wasn’t every day, but they traded messages at least once a week. Some days, they would send insults back and forth for nearly an hour before one of them trailed into silence and stopped responding. Other days, Dean would do little more than send an emoji of some kind, and follow up with a thumbs up when Rowena responded.

They never really spoke about the true purpose of the messages. Ex-enemies didn’t check in on each other to make sure they were both still alive, or send half-hearted warnings to each other to stay out of particular towns for a few days.

Considering how few people Rowena knew well, and how many of those people wanted her dead or maimed, her frequent acerbic exchanges with Dean were practically a friendship. It was rather frustrating, because although she could really use a few good allies, she had very little idea about what had caused Dean to switch from gruff indifference to regular messages.

How much of his time under the curse did Dean actually remember? Did he remember her exact words, that bizarre outpouring of vulnerability she had allowed, secure in the knowledge that Dean would not remember? Or Was he perhaps remembering something less concrete, some general naive trust in her character, built up and added to his subconscious?

Did it matter? After years of trying to kill each other, they were being civil and almost friendly, and Rowena could feel herself growing fonder of the elder Winchester with his every message. And his brother was just so delightful to tease.

Whatever the reason for their odd relationship, it was obvious that there was some new level of trust between them.

So when Dean messaged her with a location, and told her they had found something she’d find interesting, Rowena decided to pay them a visit. She was not disappointed.

Who would have expected that Fergus had sired a son?

* * *

 

Rowena had forgotten how peaceful it could be in the middle of nowhere, far from the politics and intrigue of the Grand Coven, the constant noise and unclean air of London. There was no need to watch over her shoulder for the Men of Letters. No landlady threatening to turn her out on the streets. No need to trade the favours of her body for food or shelter.

It was incredibly boring, but perhaps that was what she needed. A respite from the mess that was her life, free from expectations and responsibilities.

The child who had found her was called Oskar. He was a sweet, sick, naive little thing, all wide grins and blond hair and deep wheezing coughs, and he hadn’t hesitated to invite Rowena to his home. His parents were more cautious, but they still offered her the use of their home, and some portion of the bland gruel that they called food, as well as clean rags to tend to her wounded leg.

The strangest part was that none of them seemed to expect any form of reward from helping her. Despite her rich clothing, it was obvious she had nothing in the way of money or any objects of value, her bags having been abandoned in the London dockyards. As the weeks went on, there was no lord or lady or servant come to fetch her and perhaps offer a reward to the peasant family who had hosted a strange, runaway lady, and yet Oskar’s family still hosted her. Even as the weeks became a month, never once did the family request that she join them in the exhausting everyday chores of the household.

It was nearly enough to make Rowena feel guilty for their efforts. There were better, warmer places to recover than in a peasant’s hut. Yet, she remained long after healing her leg. She hardly required that they give up any of their food or space for her, especially when it was so needed to care for little Oskar, but they offered it to her freely, and she was not one to turn such charity away. Even with her leg healed, she could do with a rest. It hadn’t been long ago that she had been wandering the streets, sunk deep in the despair of losing her magic. Her constitution was not at its strongest, and there was just something enchanting about the gentle sort of kindness that allowed a peasant to give more than they could afford to a stranger.

The true reason she was staying was for Oskar.

Despite herself, Rowena felt very quickly fond of the boy. He always smiled at her, sweet and innocent, and he snuck from his sickbed every day to bring her flowers. In the evenings, he would sit near her, call her Aunty Rowena, and talk to her about what Rowena could only presume was his day, and he would help to brush Rowena’s hair and braid it. He would listen carefully whenever she spoke, and always tried to sneak her the best bits of his meals.

Rowena liked him. She liked him a great deal, and it was an effort some days not to pull him close and bury her head in his blond hair. If he had been her child, she would have been a proud mother.

Some evenings she would stare into the dark and wonder. Perhaps Fergus would have grown into a child like Oskar. Perhaps Rowena would one day have been able to see him as something other than the Lord’s son’s bastard child. Perhaps she truly was defective. What sort of mother felt disgust at her own child but cooed over another? Fergus hadn’t deserved her ire, not really. His existence had brought her nothing but headaches, it was true, but it had been the Lord’s son who had used her and thrown her aside when it proved convenient. It had been her father who had cast her out, and the rest of the town who abandoned her. Poor Fergus had merely been a convenient target.

And she would never see him again.

Some days she imagined stealing Oskar away, and raising him as her child wherever they settled. He would be her repentance, her chance to give a child the life Fergus should have had. The life she wished she had had.

She knew it would never be more than a daydream. Where she was going, she didn’t plan on bringing children. Still, it was nice to imagine.

On the day she left, she gathered Oskar tight in her arms, whispering enchantments around him. One to cure his permanent cough, a disease of the lungs. One to give him youth and vitality long past his years. She smiled, and kissed his cheek.

And when Rowena left, she did her best to leave his memory behind. She wouldn’t need it when she was studying magic. She never be weak again.

* * *

 

It had been a tumultuous few days. 

She had gained a grandson, only to lose him near immediately. It had been her fault, of course, her actions that sent him back to a certain death. And Fergus had snapped and snarled, and presumably wept as soon as he was alone.

Gods, she was getting maudlin.

Between draining one glass of whisky and ordering another, a man settled beside her. She ignored him, even as she recognised who it was. 

“Come to gloat, you flannel-wrapped monstrosity?” Rowena drawled, her words already softer around the edges from drink.

“To commiserate, maybe. I don’t think anyone won today.” Dean waved down the barman, ordering another two drinks. Silence stretched between them. It wasn’t quite comfortable, but it suited them, each lost in their own memories, and ponderings of things that could have been. 

Eventually, Dean spoke.

“I’m sorry about Oskar. Kid didn't deserve the end he got,” Dean murmured into his glass. “Especially not considering the mess undoing the Mark created.”

Rowena snorted, shaking her head. “I just sent a grandchild I hardly knew to his death, to punish my child, who I barely tolerate on a good day, for the death of a child I adored that didn't belong to me and I hadn't spoken to for centuries. You and I are alike in at least one way, Dean Winchester. The people around us die bloody. But we're all very sorry, aren't we?”

Dean grimaced, but he clinked their glasses together and drank deeply. 

Several hours later, Dean helped escort an unsteady Rowena to her hotel, leading her right of the door of her room. Somewhat tipsy himself, Dean appeared far more like a morose version of the innocent he had been under the curse, and for some reason Rowena couldn’t look at him without seeing Oskar’s face, trusting and bloodstained between her hands. 

She made an odd, hiccupping sob of a noise, and a moment later, Dean’s arms were around her, and he began to mumble again. It took another second to recognise he was trying to sing “Hey, Jude”, ridiculous man. 

She wasn't sure how long they spent there, rocking slowly to Dean’s off-key singing. But by the time he released her, she felt more like her. Like Rowena, the all-powerful witch, and less like Rowena MacLeod, a peasant’s daughter and outcast struggling to survive. 

She would be fine. She always was. 

But it was nice to have a friend to lean on for a moment.


End file.
